The Prisoner
by deathofaraven
Summary: For as long as anyone can remember, there's been a prisoner in the dungeons beneath the castle. Some say he's a legend created to inspire fear and order, but those who've met him know the truth: he's very real and he's most unwilling to sit quietly any longer.
1. Prologue: Cell-dweller

**Disclaimer:** Despite my best efforts, I cannot lay claim to Fable or any of its characters, more's the pity. You...er...won't try to sue me, right? That would just be mean...

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**Prologue:**  
**Cell-dweller**

The dungeons were starkly silent. That was the thing that always creeped him out, more so than the rats or the dark. Dearran stood at perfect attention beside the iron black dungeon door; he was the only one who would do guard duty down here in the cold darkness at night. It wasn't too bad, really. After the prisoner was asleep, he was allowed to relax and get something hot to eat or drink. He could read or play cards until the next shift arrived, too. But…it still was an uncomfortable job.

The prisoner never spoke nor made a sound when guards were around except when he occasionally screamed in his sleep (which all the guards had been instructed to do nothing about). When visitors came, he spoke so quietly that the guards couldn't hear his words, and he never acknowledged them when they brought food or other things. In short, the prisoner ignored them as if they were merely bricks in the walls or moving decorations. In a way, Dearran supposed they were just pretty decorations to a lifer in a cell.

Still, he'd been at this post for nearly a year now and he didn't even know the bloke's _name_.

As the lantern behind the cell's curtains died down some, he pondered at the prisoner hidden from view. Clearly he was a very important man for the king had furnished his cell in a manner that left the occupant quite comfortable: a couple bookcases with books, a desk stocked with writing supplies, a wash area, and a comfortable bed. But, of all these strange items, Dearran thought the strangest were the most innocuous. For one, the cell had curtains; thick, heavy, dusty maroon curtains that ran from the very top of the cell to the ground, allowing the prisoner to open and draw them at will—which he did, everyday at exactly the same time. How did Dearran know it was the same time? Well, it was only because of the other object: a small brass clock that ticked on endlessly and yet seemed unable to pierce the absolute silence of the dungeons. All in all, neither made much sense to him—surely the curtains should be a security issue and the clock was against the whole point of trying to keep prisoners cut off from the outside world—but it wasn't his place to point this out. He was the babysitter, after all, not the prisoner's mum.

The light behind the curtains stayed dim and the lack of movement convinced Dearran that the prisoner had finally gone to sleep. Relieved, he sank down onto an old stool under a guttering torch and pulled himself up to the table that had been set up for the guard's convenience. Dearran anxiously pulled his meal bag to him. A java potion would do him some good; this was his second shift in twenty-four hours and he was exhausted. If this kept up, he would have to have a chat with his superior officer about no longer being on prisoner watch…which was a shame, really. Watching the prisoner was the easiest job he'd ever had to do. Certainly a lot less trouble than when he'd had to watch political prisoners at Ravenscar; _that_ had been a nightmare he _still_ had scars from.

Dearran had just started on his second java potion and a pack of biscuits when a noise shattered the silence, ringing through the still air in one long quavering note. Instinctively, he set his foodstuffs back down upon the table and turned toward the shrouded cell. As if in response, there was another ping of someone tapping pointedly on metal.

"Everything alright in there?" Dearran called, more concerned for what would happen to him if the prisoner fell injured than the prisoner himself.

Silence greeted him, and Dearran suddenly wondered if the prisoner _could_ speak. Just because some of the other blokes said he spoke to his guests didn't mean he did. If something was wrong with the prisoner and he couldn't tell Dearran….

But he heard no signs of struggle or trouble and so he settled back into his meal. He felt silly for getting worked up over nothing. Probably just the prisoner getting bored and playing jokes on who ever was around. Yeah, that would be it. And he was exhausted enough to fall for it. Comforted by the thought, Dearran settled back into finishing his pack of biscuits.

"You over there—yes, you by the door—what is your name?" a bored voice drawled, unseen, at him.

Dearran's head whipped around to stare at the prisoner's cell—the only possible location the voice could have come from. The query wasn't exactly interested sounding; instead, it sounded as if the prisoner was just asking on some longstanding sense of decorum that had been instilled into him. Dearran suddenly wondered if the prisoner was nobility.

"Eh…uh…Dearran, sir," he stuttered out through his surprise.

There was an exasperated sigh before the prisoner muttered, "I didn't mean your first name."

The soldier flushed. "Burby, Second Lieutenant of his majesty's royal army."

"That's better," the other man replied dryly. After receiving no addition comments, he said slowly, as if seeing how the word felt on his tongue, "_Bur-by_…"

Dearran had always been teased for his last name, but this man…something about the way he drew out every letter and syllable made the word go from funny to repulsive. He was mocking him and that fact horrified the young soldier. He refused to rise to the bait. After all, Dearran wasn't the one stuck in a cell for…forever. It didn't matter what a prisoner thought of him.

There was a slight rustle of the curtains and Dearran saw something white rest against the bars.

"You will deliver this for me," the prisoner told him; instructing him, not asking.

Getting annoyed with the superior attitude, Dearran snapped, "I'm not your messenger boy."

"_No_, you're my baby-sitter and my keeper. My well-being is in your best interest if you wish to keep your position. Now. _Do_ come here."

Dearran suddenly felt feverishly warm with embarrassment. He didn't know how it had happened, but, somehow, the prisoner had completely taken the power from him. He'd simply brushed aside his station as both militia and keeper and took over. Getting up, Dearran sighed. _And now I'm doing as he says. What next? I'll be opening the doors and letting him loose?_

As he approached the cell, a thin envelope had parted the maroon drapes more fully, looking like a tooth in a glass of wine. Dearran hesitantly reached for it, ignoring the snarky "there's a good boy" aimed at him and stared blankly at the envelope. He'd never seen paper so perfectly folded or writing so precisely inscribed before. Dearran quickly read over the address, slipped the envelope into his pocket and turned to leave.

Faster than a darting serpent, a hand darted out from behind the curtains to grasp his wrist tightly. Dearran tried to pull away, but the prisoner simply tightened his grip. He was too taken aback to form a comment as he stared at the hand; though he could feel calluses on the man's palm and fingers, his wrist's pale skin was smooth and scarless. His stomach tightened when he realized that, other than his hand, he could see nothing else of the prisoner's.

Careful, teasing fingers traced down to Dearran's wedding ring, the band of tarnished metal so cheap it looked fake.

"She's going to leave you, you know. Not now, but soon," the prisoner said slowly, unconcerned about what exactly he was saying. He seemed more interested in Dearran's reaction than the words themselves.

Dearran swallowed hard. "I know."

Seemingly satisfied, the prisoner let him go with a slight shove and withdrew his hand back behind the curtains. The lamplight beyond flared slightly and Dearran made his way, shaking slightly, back to his post. He collapsed onto his stool beside the forgotten java potion and chocolate biscuits. There was nothing for it: the prisoner was creepy.

Dearran couldn't wait for his shift to be over.

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**AN:** What? What's this? A chapter of something, you say?! Wherever did it come from? Hell if I know. Random plot bunnies like to attack me with half-formed ideas of really strange situations. I seem to be working on this one a rather lot, though, so...might be interesting to see where it goes, right? After all...who is this mysterious prisoner, what was he arrested for, and will he ever leave poor Dearran (yes, that's not a constant typo) alone? Or...something. (Also, please admire my shameless Celldweller fangirling in the naming of this chapter.) Anyway, I'm going to go before my hyperness scares more people off, hehe. Please review. ^^


	2. One: A Sharp Interest (aka Anachronism)

_Six months ago…_

**Chapter One: ****A Sharp Interest**

_He dreams of fire that blackens his mind and smoke that chokes his soul. He dreams of ash that smothers his senses but does nothing to quiet the screams echoing through his subconscious. There is no light here. He has shut it from his mind. And here in the dark, blackness festers into something nameless. And yet, here in this dark, he sits and plots and waits for the dawn._

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Pierce Sharpe didn't know it, but if he'd gone in to work with his usual chipper, overly talkative attitude, today would have been the day he died. See, Pierce was a writer and, as such, he asked too many questions. Too many _dangerous_ questions. The prisoner had even worked out entirely how he would do it: when Pierce handed him a newspaper as he always did, he would grab the young man's wrist and pull him up to the cell bars (as he usually did when he was annoyed and demanding attention from the person he was talking to). With a lover's gentle caress, he would pull him forward and slowly tighten his grip until Pierce's life faded like ink on a damp page. The guards would do nothing to stop it (he had single-handedly killed nine of them, once, following a botched attempt at escape and they had been too worried about the soldier he had used as a shield to attempt shooting at him so, obviously, a normal person would mean even less to them), and all he had to do was wait.

Perhaps, Reaver pondered, Sharpe was just unnaturally lucky that way.

The aforementioned writer sidled into the room and sat down on a stool in front of the cell. A scowl had taken residence upon his face and his long, greasy brown hair had been pulled out of his face in a haphazard ponytail. Reaver noticed Pierce's nails even looked bitten.

"What's the matter, love?" Reaver inquired, his voice a purr as he eyed the younger man. "You're usually much more…_flamboyant_ with your company."

That was a bit of a stretch, he knew. Pierce was overly-talkative and loud, but not in a manner most would call flamboyant. Actually, he was a bit of a know-it-all, and he was too eager to get into trouble. Which, in hindsight, Reaver considered might have brought Pierce straight to his little corner of hell.

Pierce looked awkward and hesitant, as if he was standing on a precipice with a great weight about to pull him over the edge, and he took a long while to meet Reaver's eyes. "Sorry, just…been busy lately."

And _that_ was a lie. Since _when_ was Sharpe busy with anything other than his silly novel writing? Not to mention he was slightly hunched into himself, his posture screaming submission and supplication. No, nothing was right here.

The younger man held out the early edition of the Bowerstone Times and, as he took it, Reaver's fingers lingered on Pierce's hand a moment too long to be considered casual. The front page of the paper bore a garish illustration of Bowerstone's industrial district being ripped apart by a series of explosions, and the heading simply read "SUSPECTS STILL AT LARGE!" The article was distasteful, at best, with a florid commentary about terrorists and how many people had died. Reaver was sure a group of old hags at tea would have provided a better and more succinct version of events.

Something seemed to click in his brain, and he flicked idly through the paper; looking, looking, looking. _There._ He completely ignored that his "guest" was waiting silently and almost respectfully to acknowledge that he existed again.

With an air of vague annoyance, Reaver folded the paper and turned his attention to the guard loitering by the dungeon door. It was a different man than the one who had been there the last six months, and he contemplated the change merely so he wouldn't have to focus on the foolish boy in front of him. There wasn't much to focus on in his little room, after all.

Pierce started fidgeting, uncomfortable in the still, cold air. The little brass clock on his desk ticked on in a most annoying fashion. For what seemed like an entire age, nothing moved.

"Did-did you want to continue?" Pierce managed, shattering the stillness.

Reaver didn't need to ask what Pierce meant. Like most people in Bowerstone, Pierce had grown up hearing stories about the mysterious prisoner secreted away beneath Castle Fairfax; unlike most people, Pierce had actually taken initiative to find out the truth and had decided to learn more. And then he'd decided to go a little too far and write a book about him. Meaning Reaver. That was four years ago. Four very long years of Pierce's annoyingly entitled company and overly enthusiastic—bordering on superior—attitude. Despite the visits being only bi-monthly, the way Reaver saw it, his patience was about to be nominated for sainthood any day now.

_Why do you persist when you know your attention is unwanted? When you know what I am capable of and what I won't hesitate to do to you?_

"I thought we could address how you ended up here, since we never talked about it," Pierce was continuing, his slightly nasal voice cutting through the prisoner's thoughts like a sharpened sword. "If…if you remember, that is."

Involuntarily, Reaver stiffened slightly in memory.

Oh, he remembered. He remembered it very well, even if, now fifty years after it had happened, he couldn't quite put it into words himself.

The daft old seeress had transported them to a man-made hill and had them all stand on different platforms. Really, he hadn't been paying much attention. All he'd wanted to know was why this was so important and what Lucien was planning on doing with the supposedly boundless power he was supposed to receive from the Spire.

And then the lights had started. Golden light had pooled at his feet to spread up his body and seep into his flesh. His veins had burst into flame. His muscles were wrapped in agony. It was a miracle he'd managed not to scream. Then, as suddenly as it started, it was over and the four of them were on their knees: Hammer, the barbarian, whimpering slightly as she panted; Garth, the dull pedant, slowly pulling himself to his feet with a groan of pain; and, the mystery of all mysteries, little Sparrow—the only one standing as he stared around with wide, confused eyes. Sparrow's innocence practically screamed for Reaver to snatch it away.

But it was too late. The old hag Theresa was gone and the weapon they were meant to create was nowhere in sight.

Reaver didn't fail very often and to find out that not only had they failed but they were also surrounded by Lucien and his men was intolerable. Naturally, he'd tried to rectify it. He didn't care if it made him look like a suck-up or a coward; it was survival and he intended to endure anything. And, when it came down to it, he _was_ able to endure beyond everyone.

Or…so he'd thought. He hadn't accounted for Lucien suddenly shooting Sparrow—and his little dog, too—dead. He hadn't considered that they would be dragged to the Spire to have their collective life forces drained to empower Lucien's master creation. And he had most certainly never took into account that Sparrow would _come back_ from the dead. How could he have? After all, he was used to winning fights, and getting taken to the Spire did not count as winning. And dead men were supposed to _stay_ dead.

Things were blurry after that: bright lights and garbled voices. Distinctly, he recalled someone—Lucien, he was willing to bet—asking someone else what they were fighting for. The other person had snarled something Reaver hadn't been able to make out. More shouts. And then, above it all, a rumble that seemed to shake the entire world. Instinct snapped him out of his lethargy and propelled him to his feet. He only narrowly avoided being crushed under an enormous chunk of stone.

Garth shouted at him to join them, Hammer kneeling at his feet with Sparrow's now limp body in her arms. Reaver joined them only because, with the severely wounded Lucien blocking the door, there was nowhere else to go. As Garth transported them out of the Spire, the pirate hadn't stopped to ponder what was happening; he could guess it himself: the Spire was out of magic.

They parted ways on a desolate stretch of beach, where they had arrived after Garth's…intervention. Hammer and Sparrow, who was both wounded and, it seemed to Reaver, somehow poisoned, departed North to the supposed safety of warrior monks. Garth had taken passage aboard a ship and left to shores unknown. And Reaver himself had taken what was left of his crew on a merry adventure of staying as far away from Lucien as possible on the open seas.

Only one of the group had had any success. Lucien's men had burned the monastery Hammer had taken Sparrow to the ground; there had been no survivors. And, after a nasty incident involving a kraken, a jealous whore, and a light-less lighthouse, Reaver had found himself ship-less, crew-less, and then, to his utter lack of amazement, imprisoned.

It wouldn't have been a stretch to say he was almost hoping Lucien would just shoot him and be done with it, but Lucien had other plans. _That_ was how Reaver found himself to be Fairfax Castle dungeon's permanent resident.

As the walls closed in around him, Lucien had given him a few parting words: _"For your treachery, I am rewarding you with all you see here."_

The memory of those words echoed through him, setting his blood afire. He was _not_ an animal to be caged. If the dungeon wasn't warded, he…he….

Slowly, Reaver returned his gaze to Pierce's, and found a bit of pleasure when Pierce, seeing some kind of change in him, flinched back.

"I don't see how it's important to your publication one way or another," Reaver replied, the faintest edge of warning and finality in his otherwise pleasant tone. "Good day to you, Sharpe."

It took Pierce a moment to realize he was being dismissed, and, when he finally realized it, he left in a hurry. As Reaver watched him go, he decided that time was finally up. He wasn't expecting any more visits from dear Mr. Sharpe.

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**AN:** Eh, awkward, filler-ly chapter. But...at least you guys know what's going on in this AU. ;) So, disregard everything that happened in Fable after Sparrow uses the music box on Lucien, and jump ahead fifty years to Lucien ruling Albion and now we're all on the same page. Um...each chapter of this story will be a meeting between Reaver (who guessed it was him?) and someone else. It may be their first meeting, it might be their hundred and first. If there's a specific person you'd like to see in here from the series, let me know so I can see about getting them into a chapter. =) Also, as forewarning, this is _not_ Reaver as you see him in the games; every once in a while he might be the sarcastic, mocking SOB we all know, but it won't be often. I'm pointing this in the realm of "dark and twisted", so...I hope you lot enjoy the ride. Thanks to everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed. =) I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Also...Claire? Can I has my biscuits back now? I...I posted the chapter. You can keep the muses, but I need my biscuits to write. *puppy dog eyes*

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**Anon. Review Replies:**

_Rygon:_ Aye, aye, Cap'n. *salutes* Thank you for your review, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.


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